The Sorting of Dean Thomas
by Scarves
Summary: A short story recounting the experiences, thoughts, and emotions of Dean Thomas during his Sorting Ceremony.


Dean Thomas entered the Great Hall, numbly taking in the clouds of floating candles, the sheer, high walls that made him feel like he was at the bottom of a canyon, and the hundreds upon thousands of students who turned to glare at the small huddle of first years. He looked down the extraordinary length of the hall, and nearly turned back when he contemplated the great distance he had to walk to the front. It was simply too far to go under the judgmental stares of the entire school.

And what would he do when he reached the end of that great walk? He was to be tested somehow, the boy on the train, Seamus, had told him. But what kind of test? What if he failed? Dean was nearly certain he would; he had just learned about this new world, and knew next to nothing about it. He was a stranger in a strange land, a foreigner, a displaced eleven-year-old kid.

"It's only a hat, it's only a hat..." Seamus was muttering, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Dean looked at the boy, but then looked away quickly. Seamus was pale and frightened. Seeing someone who looked as nervous as Dean felt did nothing for his confidence levels.

They had been walking for ages. Did the front of the Hall keep moving away from them? Dean swung his head around, desperate for some way to escape the scrutiny of the masses. He eyes travelled up the sides of the canyon, and up, and up… and didn't stop at a vaulted ceiling, like he had expected, but saw a tranquil sky. Stars glittered down at him. The airy heavens were the last thing Dean expected to see inside of the solid stone castle, but he was glad to see the stars. Oddly, the infinity of space didn't make him feel as small as the hall had done. He felt big. He felt... watched over. The sight of the stars suddenly bolstered his courage. In that moment, there was no mountain too great. He could take whatever test they wanted to throw at him, and he would beat it, with his wit, or nerve, or tenacity. He was Dean Thomas, for godssake!

They had reached the front. Dean turned to face the hall. Students seated at four long tables faced him. The mass of people caused the confidence, or perhaps cockiness, he had just built up to waver some, but he was still left with a firm resolve. He could do this! He started running through all the knowledge of his eleven years, trying to review, prepare in for whatever test what set to him. He ran through his multiplication tables first.

Twelve and two is twenty-four. Twelve and three is thirty-six. Twelve and four is… twelve and four is forty-eight!

The severe professor placed an old and frayed hat on a four-legged stool. The thick earthy fabric sagged under the weight of years. A rip near the brim suddenly opened like a mouth. That seemed to draw itself up, and then began to sing.

The hat mentioned sleek and tall top hats, and bowlers, and Dean's nervous mind reacted by supplying him with images of other hats—he thought of hamburgs and coxswain's caps, panamas and boaters, opera hats and berets. Oddly, his mind also supplied 'la boina,' a beret in Spain, which is funny, because berets are French, and he remembered the Guatemalan woman on the Underground complementing his 'boina roja,' and oh god what's the hat saying now? He had no word for that kind of hat, the one that was singing. A wizard's hat, he supposed. Or a mind-meld hat.

Did he remember any Spanish he'd learned that one time? Yo soy, tu se, el-ella-usted es, nosotros somos, vosotros vomos, ustedes son… No, that's not right! Yo soy, tu eres… vosotros sois…

The hat described the houses. He heard the phrase 'brave at heart.' His mother always said he had a good heart. He never knew what she meant. Chivalry… 'To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan' floated through his mind. He didn't remember where those words were from. Maybe one of his mum's magnets on the fridge. A king? A lord? The name he couldn't quite remember reminded him of the Arctic, or of the Swiss Alps. He heard the words 'true' and 'loyal' from the hat. Those are good things… so are wit and wisdom and cunning…

"…So put me on! Don't be afraid! And don't get in a flap! You're in safe hands (though I have none) For I'm a Thinking Cap!" The hat finished its song.

'Ah, so that's what it's called,' Dean thought. 'A Thinking Cap!'

Twelve and five is… is sixty! Twelve and six is sixty-five. No, seventy-two! Twelve and seven is…

The severe professor started calling names. Abbott, Hannah went to "HUFFLEPUFF!" The shout startled Dean, breaking his concentration. He had nearly figured out twelve and seven!

Boot, Terry went to "RAVENCLAW!" Yes, that's fitting, thought Dean. That boy looks like a Ravenclaw. Wait, why did he know that? What was a Ravenclaw supposed to look like? Dean shook his head. Twelve and seven is…

More names were called. Commencing countdown, Dean thought. 10, 9, 8… What is twelve and seven? Nineteen. No, that's not right. Granger, Hermione went to Gryffindor. Her hair reminded him of lion… she must be fierce, he thought.

Malfoy, Draco was called. His name was tangy and metallic. He went to Slytherin.

The count goes on. 4, 3, 2, 1… The professor kept whittling down the alphabet as she called names, creeping inexorably closer to Thomas, Dean. "Moon"…Earth below the moon. Earth below us. The sun and the moon and the stars and the wind that cries… and then "Nott," slipknot and square knot and sailors know more about knots that he did, "Parkinson," made him think of Peter Parker, and "Patil" and "Patil" reminded him of that book his mum was reading with tigers and Richard Parker like Peter Parker and oceans and pi… 3.145923… no, that's wrong… 3.14592653… and they were getting closer to his name and what is twelve times seven? Twelve and seven is—

"Potter, Harry," was called, and sudden outbreak of hissing and sizzling distracted Dean again. It was whispering and gossiping he realized. He suddenly felt bad for the boy who caused the hisses… it sounded like a pit of snakes. He thought of pots and throwing and clay and earth and cool grass that snakes liked to slither through…

Twelve and seven is—

Twelve and seven is…

"Thomas, Dean."

Dean's frenzied thoughts stuttered to a standstill. He inhaled sharply, and looked up. There were the stars. It's time to leave the capsule, if you dare… he thought. Stars, in their multitude… Order and light… There's no mountain too great! Now that the waiting was done, and he was walking forward with measured steps, he felt more calm, resolved, resigned.

He picked up the hat with slightly shaking hands. He sat down on the stool, moved to put the hat on his head. Eighty-four, he thought, just before the hat dropped and covered his eyes.

A voice whispered in his ear. "Interesting, interesting…" The hat seemed to be talking to him. "You're cunning and sensible enough, I wonder if Slytherin…?"

'Slytherin, Slytherin, which one's Slytherin?' Dean thought, trying to remember the words of the song.

"'You'll make your real friends…'" the hat supplied helpfully.

'Ah. "Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends,"' Dean finished the quote. 'Ends don't justify the means…' he thought.

"Of course, of course," the hat said. "Definitely _not_ Slytherin… Well, perhaps Ravenclaw. Just look at this hurricane of thoughts… Eighty-four indeed…"

'1984,' Dean thought.

"What?"

'Nothing.'

"Those winds are still blowing, I see… and you've got the mind of an artist… perhaps Ravenclaw…"

Dean had expected the hat to shout the last word. It didn't.

"The mind of an artist indeed… You think of the glories of Greece and Rome, dream of the stars and of irrational numbers, whatever those are… The heart of an artist, rather. You've got a good heart."

'My mum tells me that.'

"And she's right! Truly, you've got a heart of gold—"

'Improbability drive.'

"What?"

'Nothing.'

"Hmpf. You've got a heart of gold, you're a lion among men, so it had better be GRYFFINDOR!"

The hat shouted the last word. As Dean got up from the stool and lifted the hat from his head, he heard one last whisper: "Your father was the same way."

'El mismo,' Dean thought, a warm glow in his heart, as he glanced back at the stars one more time. He jogged to the table of red and gold and sat down next to the boy he'd met on the train. The boy turned and gave him a wide, happy grin.

"Welcome home, mate," Seamus said.

Dean beamed back at him. "You too," he said.

And he realized he was home, as he sat talking and laughing with his new friends, eating pie, and generally having an excellent time.


End file.
